Rashemen Nights
by Hekateras
Summary: NWN2:MotB: So what does it REALLY feel like to be struck with a deadly curse and become a hated monster, when the whole land is against you and your old friends in all likelihood are dead? It may sound primitive, but insomnia is one HELL of a disadvantage
1. Nightfall

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to the creators and respective copyright holders of Neverwinter Nights 2: Mask of the Betrayer._

_Author's Notes: I always thought the effects of the spirit-eater curse in MotB were severely under-dramatised - and even though I'm biased because I'm a real drama queen, come on, just think about it - a curse that is described to feel like an addiction and will inevitably drive you mad and kill you? That would screw anyone up. In this short fic I've tried to explore both the physical and psychological implications of such a predicament.__ It's up to you to tell me whether all the angst is effective or just plain annoying. :D_

_This fic is three chapters long, with the third being nearly finished. Whether or not and how fast I'll put the next chapters up will depend on the feedback for this one, so don't be shy. :D_

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* * *

The nights were the worst. 

During the day, there was always too much to do to worry about something as carnal as her desires. Every new heartbeat was one earned through blood and sweat; fighting, running and leaping through more loopholes to get to their destination. During the day, there was always something more urgent on her mind. During the day, it was easy to distract herself; she could curb her hunger until it lay still and dormant, up to the point where she could almost pretend she wasn't cursed. During the day, she could look at Okku or any of the humongous elementals Safiya and Gann were so fond of summoning and _not_ think of the luscious, vibrant stream of spirit energy flowing just beneath the surface, waiting to be tapped.

During the day.

* * *

"Kaelyn, would you spar with me?" 

The half-Celestial hesitated, considering her request. "Of course," she replied a moment later, her voice clear and brisk. She rose, the feathery wings flapping momentarily to preserve her balance, and Dree did likewise, unsheathing her scimitar. She strode out of the camp, Kaelyn following behind. Safiya acknowledged their departure with a weary nod – as it had quickly become apparent, she wasn't well accustomed to travelling on foot from dawn till dusk – and Okku grumbled something about not making too much of a ruckus lest it attract more hostile spirits. Gann just stared on into the flames of the campfire, briefly throwing her a silent, thoughtful glance. The gods only knew what occupied the shaman's mind – he could be conversing with the tongues of flame dancing in the cinders for all she could tell.

In the dim afterglow of the evening, Kaelyn's figure was like a pale ghost dancing from shadow to shadow before her as they traded blows. The sky turned black, with only the thin slice of the new moon peeking through the clouds, but Dree had long learned she needn't hold back for her opponent's benefit – the half-Celestial's night sight was a match for her own.

Even with her muscles sore from the day's challenges, Dree hammered and slashed away at Kaelyn's defences until she was gasping for breath, cold sweat running down her face. She didn't care that she made zillions of mistakes in a state like this, providing opening after opening; all that mattered was getting battered up as much as possible. Kaelyn was panting too, but still had her bearings. The cleric had endurance, Dree had to give her that, and she was all too glad for it, otherwise she would've been reduced to attempting to wrestle Okku to the ground to wear herself out, and she doubted broken bones would help her sleep any more than her 'affliction' already did.

The nights were always the worst. Where, during the day, she thought she had her hunger under control, whenever the time came for her body to relax, it would surge up past the retreating chains of her will, consuming her mind until she could think of nothing else. Even as every inch of her being cried out for rest, the hunger would claw at her from inside, urging her to jump to her feet and hurl herself at the nearest source of spirit energy she could find... Okku's presence, his strength and willpower so soothing in the daytime, would become an itch at the edge of her consciousness, and even Gann, with the veil of spirits surrounding him like a cloak, would be little more than another beacon of temptation – and_ not_ in the way the insufferable charmer might've liked to think.

At first, Dree had attempted to get the better of her affliction, trying to will the hunger to give away... She'd spent many tiresome nights listening to her own breath and the crackle of fire, her eyes screwed shut and her mind struggling to still the images and impulses flooding her thoughts so that she could finally get some rest.

She'd doze for a time, until the hunger jerked her back to alertness, and then she'd need to fight against it to keep herself still. Either way, eventually exhaustion would overcome her, but her sleep would hardly be a restful one. Shadows of the conflict that should have claimed her life still plagued her in her dreams; it had all been too much, too soon, and far too fast for her to follow. She had surfaced from the lingering nightmare of the struggle against the King of Shadows into a different one, in which, in an ironic stroke of fate, _she_ had become the hated abomination. And even as she tried to suppress those worries in favour of the challenges of the present, not a moment passed when she didn't wonder what had happened to her old companions, who'd followed her willingly – and, it now seemed, without a single good reason – to a battle that only she and perhaps the warlock had needed to attend.

Awaking in that barrow, still worn from the recent struggle, without a single clue of what had happened... Dree often wondered if her fate had ever been her own.

"You can barely stand," Kaelyn remarked, her voice calm and soothing like a cool breeze. "I daresay you've had enough for today."

Looking up into the cleric's pale face from where she was kneeling on the ground, having tripped and lost her balance, Dree gave a breathless nod and accepted Kaelyn's outstretched hand, letting herself be pulled back to her feet.

"Thank you," she muttered as she shuffled along back to their camp, the tip of her scimitar trailing in the dust. Kaelyn simply nodded, forgoing comment as they settled back to their places to clean their weapons with what little energy they still had left.

And so it came down to this. Each evening, Dree would find some way to beat herself to a point of exhaustion when she was ready to drop dead. Usually Kaelyn provided that opportunity, being the most skilled in the use of melee weapons. Otherwise, she'd go searching for something warm and lively to eat for dinner, mostly letting Gann or Okku tag along. Both used those times to good advantage to educate her in the ways of the land and especially the spirits; you'd think she didn't have those on her mind enough. And with both, she had the distinct impression that they were handling her with kiddie gloves, as if afraid to set her off... a not completely unfounded fear, it would seem. With Okku, it went unsaid that any moment the spirit-eater inside her could take control and sink itself into him. It was a conscious risk, part of his oath, and not something that needed to be discussed or vocally acknowledged. Gann, on the other hand, had traded his flirtatious attitude in favour of a more cautious one. Ever since her hunger had been uncovered at the gates of Mulsantir, he'd grown more distant, treating her with something akin to fascinated awe - when he wasn't making another snide comment about her improvisational problem-solving abilties, that is.

Afterwards, she'd curl up on her bedroll and shut the rest of the world out for the sake of a restful, dreamless night – not that she often had the luck. Once the numbness of exhaustion passed, the hunger made her rest ridiculously easy to disturb, and just as hard to reclaim. Often she'd find herself roused back to alertness hours before dawn, the sheer physical weariness no longer profound enough and the hunger as strong as ever. All too often, she'd resort to watching the stars while waiting for the next day to begin, during which the lack of sleep made her hell to deal with.

It wasn't doing her looks any favours either, she knew she was a complete mess. Not that she didn't have more vital things to worry about – like the curse that would _inevitably_ kill her should she tarry in finding its unheard-of cure for too long – but that one time when she'd passed a mirror at the Veil had been shocking nevertheless. There was still some part of her that was the naïve swamp girl, the one who would sometimes refrain from escaping into the wild during certain festivities in the hope that maybe, just_ maybe_, one of the boys would get drunk enough to see past the horns and the ashen skin.

She'd hardly recognised herself that time back at the Veil – her eyes were dull and sunken, the skin seemed stretched taut over her protruding cheekbones, and a few scars she'd earned for her troubles as the Knight-Captain didn't help, either. Her face had taken a rather sickly cast to it – she actually looked more like a zombie than anything remotely infernal.

And yes, there was still a tiny part in her that wasn't too world-weary to indulge in vanity and secretly crave attention, and that part seethed at how haggard her looks had become, even if it _was_ only for the benefit of the sole member of their motley band who was both male _and _humanoid.

Sinking into her bedroll with a grunt of relief, Dree shot a glance at the hagspawn. He was taking the first watch and was sitting with his back to her, staring into the night. Dree squinted at him for a moment, then slid down, sighing as she let the overwhelming urge to sleep trickle in.

She briefly wondered if she would ever figure the shaman out. Once she'd gotten over the narcissistic bravado, his blatant honesty and occasional verbal bouts with her actually tended to prove quite enjoyable. On the other hand, it always seemed so hard to tell whether he was serious or a facade of mocking sarcasm; whenever she thought she'd uncovered another layer of his personality, yet another mask was waiting beyond. And though comradeship should have been bringing them closer together, Dree felt like she knew Gann even less than back when she'd persuaded him to join her for the benefit of his own freedom.

He was... intriguing, to say the least. Handsome, too, and, desperate as she was, she wouldn't have thought twice about seizing the opportunity when such arose, no matter his true personality... Yet there was a certain tone to him that she couldn't quite put her finger on - something about the paradox of his self-mockery and his arrogant confidence, perhaps - one that reminded her unnervingly of Bishop, and _that_ worked better in regards of discouraging any advances than buckets of cold water possibly could.

Stopping that trail of thought before her mind could launch another trip into the land of painful memories, Dree screwed her eyes shut and prayed to whatever gods were listening to be easy on her sleep. Resolving to think optimistically, she welcomed the night; every new evening meant another day survived, and every new dawn brought her closer to the ultimate resolution.

Whatever that might be.


	2. Tainted

Pain. Stinging pain from the multitude of cuts and bruises inflicted upon her body, her old chest wound throbbing as the shard urged her to advance on the Sword's nemesis, and a wholly different kind of pain eating her from inside.

And there was darkness, creeping in from the edges of her vision, springing to life and throwing itself at her trusted companions. They stood their ground, encircling the monstrous being of shadows that towered above them, futilely chipping away at his obsidian body. He spun around, swiping at the wizard who had been desperately scrambling away to a less perilous location, and Dree cringed as Sand's body was hurled into the wall and fell limply to the floor.

The dank air of the tomb-like chamber, the lights growing even dimmer in the Shadow King's presence, was filled with the cacophony of battle; Casavir and Khelgar hammered viciously at their adversary, Ammon was reciting a spell so fast the syllables seemed nothing but a frantic flow of garbled sound, and on top of it all, Grobnar was singing an absurdly cheerful song, his voice hoarse from abuse.

The shadows were all around them now. Where were they coming from? As they trickled in, surrounding her allies, Zhjaeve's slight figure dashed past the monolithic monster towards Sand. Dree tried to scream a warning but all she managed was a painful hiss that was lost in the din of the battle and could only watch as the githzerai cleric crumpled to the ground, her limbs giving a sickening crack.

Ammon released his spell, a flurry of red and purple energies that sprang forward to envelop the King of Shadows, but their foe shrugged it off and advanced, kicking at Casavir when he got in the way. She could hear the definitive clank of denting armour and the paladin's laboured, wheezing breath as he tried to get back to his feet. As Ammon struggled to withstand the monster's onslaught, Dree battled for control; the shard was pulling at her from inside, and her fingers itched for the Sword of Gith, yet she was unable to even draw the blade, let alone use it. What was wrong? Agony spread through her body, slowly but surely, burning like red-hot iron, and amidst Grobnar's relentless tunes Dree had to bite back a scream.

She could see the shadows, rushing in like a tide of murky swamp water to consume Khelgar, who flailed for a moment, then fell to the ground, his precious hammer still grasped in his hand. Only Grobnar remained, nestled in his own pool of light, with the flood of patchy blackness seething just without. Whistling his tune desperately, with the invisible Wender-something held tight to his mouth, Grobnar stood still, never faltering even as he gazed up with widened eyes at the towering figure advancing upon him.

Dree scrambled forward, but suddenly, her legs seemed to dissipate, and she fell painfully onto her elbows. Ahead of her, the King of Shadows raised a black foot and brought it down at the bard. The shadows abruptly rushing in on him spared her the horrific spectacle. Trembling on the ground, Dree turned her face away. The tears came without warning, pouring down her cheeks and staining her bloody knuckles.

When she looked back up, she could see naught but darkness. Squinting at it, she thought she could make out West Harbor, glimmering with the fires of celebration, and then burning much more brightly as the tough Harbormen fought their last battle against the shadows. She could see herself, the bowstring pulled back and her taut muscles trembling from the pressure as Daeghun patiently corrected her stance, and then she was staring on resolutely with her jaw clenched as Lord Nasher handed her the cloak. Shandra was giving her a mock scornful glare, then laughed and pushed her into the inn, a street urchin trailing behind with Lorne's falchion wrapped in rags and hugged close to his chest.

The waves of pain were more intense now. Dree found herself standing on a hill overlooking the Keep as dozens upon dozens of wraiths, shades and vampires surged through the open gates, the sun glaring powerlessly overhead.

"Hello there, _Captain_. Quite a change of fortunes you've been having, isn't it?"

She turned to look – she hardly needed to, she'd recognise that voice anywhere. Bishop was standing beside her, his amber eyes narrowed in bitter amusement.

"No, I wouldn't say so," she answered flatly, her gaze fixed back on the walls of the Keep. Bishop laughed, gruff and sarcastic as always.

"Wouldn't you? I'd figure. You've always loved to see people through a screen of benevolence, I suppose your own self would be no exception."

"What do you want, Bishop?" she snapped, having little patience for his antics. "You betrayed me. Come to rub salt in the wound?"

"Tsk tsk." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "And here I thought I could be of use. You might have missed that recent development, but I'd reckon you'd find me more willing to help than anyone else you'd encounter in this part of the Realms. Everyone else you meet will only be out for your head. Haven't you realised? _You're_ the monster now. A certain likeness to our beloved shadowy friend, wouldn't you say? It just figures."

"Shut it, Bishop. If you're talking of how it's my own damned heroism that's led me to this, don't bother. Or did you miss the part where I actually had no choice?"

"There's always the third option; sometimes it's just harder to take. For you, harder than marching to your own doom, it seems." He laughed again. At the Keep, Dree could make out the shadowy avatar Garius had sent at her. She wondered who was fighting it, seeing as she was up here with Bishop.

Suddenly the ranger grasped her shoulder, pulling her around to face him. "_Look_ at me," he hissed with unexpected vehemence, "forget about your damned Keep. They're not worth it. And even if they were, they're still goners, you can't save any of them. As stubborn as you are, your swamp-bred hard-headedness won't do you much good in _this _battle! Why won't you just _let it go_?!" he exclaimed in frustration, shaking her.

Dree didn't react, staring silently into those golden eyes, watching carelessly as emotion upon emotion welled up inside them, each more conflicting than the last.

"You should come with me," Bishop was now whispering, his face merely inches from hers. "Get away from this war. You never chose it, you shouldn't have to fight it. Let Nasher take his own damn care of his beloved city."

Dree was shaking her head silently, but it was a thoughtless, automatic motion. Her mind kept going over his words, and she almost had to smirk at the thought of Nasher's face when he'd learn his prime hope of salvation had given tail.

"_Trust_ me," Bishop mouthed, his face so close she could feel his breath on her lips. "This way you'll be free. You never should've let yourself be roped into this in the first place. Faerun has survived worse things in the past, with or _without_ the aid of heroes; it can survive the King of Shadows for sure. And with the Keep and Neverwinter crushed as they will be, there won't be anyone to point fingers. You'll be free."

Dree edged away, but it was a weak, half-hearted attempt. She frowned, narrowing her eyes to gaze over Bishop's shoulder. "You always were a fool to assume a life without shackles is the same as being free," she muttered, not quite hearing herself speak. Whoever was fighting in her stead at the Keep was doing a splendid job of it, it seemed; the ranks of the undead were dissipating, Garius's defeat rendering them vulnerable to sunlight. Bishop was right. She wasn't needed for this.

"Let's go," Bishop mouthed into her ear, pulling her along. Dree complied, turning her back on the Keep she had never wanted and on the loyal friends she wished she had never met – for their sakes. For once in her life, she would just go where _she_ wanted to be, not where others wanted her. She didn't have to march to death and destruction in the Merdelain and she certainly didn't deserve the curse she'd received as a reward for her victory.

Damn it, she could see it in her head – Nasher and Nevalle proclaiming that the loyal hero of Neverwinter, the demonspawn they had always been afraid of losing control of, had, regretfully, perished in the battle, giving up her life for the sake of the city – probably the whole world, actually, but that wasn't likely to get mentioned. People would cheer for the end of the war and some would shake their heads at her fate. A select few would be devastated. They'd mourn her, recite a speech in front of an empty grave, and perhaps place a monument. Then they'd get on with their lives, even as their fabled hero awoke hundreds of miles to the north, choking on her own blood. She briefly wondered how Bevil was doing.

Suddenly Dree doubled over, screaming in pain as the shard inside her chest seemed to explode. Something Zhjaeve had once _known_ flowed back to her – after one taste of its enemy, the Sword wouldn't rest until the foe was obliterated. Bishop was still pulling her forward, but with each new step she took away from her destiny, the pain seemed to increase a hundredfold.

And then it was like a fire rippling through her veins and boiling her blood. She knew it now; _she_ was the source of the darkness, a threat far more terrible than the King of Shadows had ever been. The shard and the blessing of the Purification, already at odds with her infernal blood, were tearing that darkness apart.

She was back among the menacing walls of the Guardian's sanctum. The King of Shadows towered above as she cowered helplessly on the floor, and everything seemed to be growing darker by the moment.

"You are a threat to Illefarn, and to the rest of the world," the Guardian's rumbling voice rang through the chamber. "You always have been. You must be destroyed, little one."

That last comment came with Okku's voice, and a moment later the god of bears materialised beside the Guardian, the colours of his coat dull and lifeless. And suddenly Casavir's voice joined the spirit's; he was apologising to her, but was determined to complete his holy duty nevertheless. Neeshka slipped forward; she was "really sorry it has to end like this, but we _really_ can't have you gobbling up everything in sight, y'know?" Sand was reflecting how it was regrettable, but completely unavoidable. Ammon Jerro walked forward to halt at his arch enemy's side, justifying it as "for the greater good".

And suddenly Bishop was there, his bow held taut and his arrow already sighted on her heart. "When something as dangerous as you comes about, all calls are off."

Dree turned and ran - she wouldn't raise a hand against her friends, not even when it came to this, she simply couldn't – even hearing the arrow sing as Bishop released it. Qara had joined the fray, blocking off Dree's escape with a wall of fire, and she found herself stumbling on something small and invisible while Grobnar's voice droned on in her ears.

She tripped and fell to her knees, feeling herself choking on the tears and the blood rising in her throat. Her chest split open, a sliver of solid, gleaming black departing in a fountain of blood. The tainted shard clattered to the ground.

Sprawled limply beside it, Dree could only watch as her blood pooled and spread on the cold floor, like a tide of destiny finally closing in. All senses fused together – Grobnar's cheerful tunes, the metallic tang in her mouth, the coarse surface of the stone and the dazzling red that filled her receding vision; all shifted and merged, all sense of definition became meaningless, for all of it was nothing but pain.

Pain from the wound in her chest - and the hunger nestled within.


End file.
